


Complicate

by Auntvodkacat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Time, Light Bondage, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntvodkacat/pseuds/Auntvodkacat
Summary: They're taking things at their own pace, or, well, his pace anyway. Morinthe wouldn't mind bringing the relationship a bit further, but her lover is rather difficult to pin down.





	Complicate

The summer heat rises up from the ground in waves, collecting on her skin and rolling down her back in beads. The piles of burning bodies don’t help the smell, though Morinthe supposes it is preferable to having to fight hordes of risen dead.

She lights the final pit, and a hundred of disembodied voices cry out at once before becoming silent once more. Just as it should be.

“Well, this has been terribly fun, but,” Dorian drawls, glancing up at the yellowing horizon. “I believe we’re running out of sunlight. Shall we end our adventures for the day?”

“I thought you liked undead, Necromancer,” Morinthe softly prods.

“I prefer the ones that aren’t trying to kill me, personally,” Dorian flatly replies.

“We really ought to turn in,” Cassandra agrees, wiping the infected blood from her blade with a piece of tattered cloth.

“We still need to tell that woman what happened to her brother,” Morinthe resolutely says. “We can make camp after that, I promise.”

A solemn understanding quiets any annoyance this may have elicited. The teenager had been unrecognizable, consumed by his envy and rage, literally. His family deserves to know.

By the time they make it to the Dalish camp, night has long since fallen, and the full moon is high.

Tragic as the whole mess is, Morinthe is as honest as ever. He’d been young and stupid, a dangerous mixture she’s seen in action far too many times to count. Cassandra thinks she’s tactless, Morinthe can tell that much from her transparent face, but the boy’s sister seems to accept the whole thing. She wanders just past the very edge of the camp afterward, and the woman stares silently at the temple in the distance for some time.

Hawen offers them lodging for the night, but she declines. One glance can tell her that her companions are uncomfortable with the idea, particularly Solas. He’s decided over the course of nearly a year that he’s fond of her, but expecting him to get along with any Dalish clan without a hitch is a bit too optimistic, even for Morinthe.

They put up a small makeshift camp some ways away from the clan, just two tents and a fire. Despite night having fallen, Morinthe still feels the heat sticking to her like a film. While Dorian and Cassandra argue over the proper way to heat up their scarce rations, Morinthe shoulders her bow and walks away from the circle.

She heads for a crumbling ruin in the distance-- the same one they’d cleared of a rift a few days prior.

There’s no Freemen or Red Templars anymore, but Morinthe had been sure to come armed to the ancient baths. It’s stupid, really, going out alone. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask anyone else along, however. Morinthe really isn’t used to social interaction just yet, not really.

It is a good thing that she’s been followed, then. Morinthe had noticed her pursuer as soon as she’d left camp, although he does walk with the same silence as always. In a way, she’s afraid that if she turns around he might vanish, so she acts as though she doesn’t know.

The baths are quiet, save for the soft lapping of water. Morinthe sets her bow and quiver down a few feet away from the shore. Her jacket, boots, and shirt soon follow. She doesn’t strip down any more than that, though. Morinthe would rather not have to fight off an ambush naked.

Morinthe wades into the water. It’s blissfully cool, so she’s quick to dunk her head. When she emerges again, she turns to face the shore, where Solas is lounging with a thoughtful expression.

“Afraid of a little water, Fade Walker?” Morinthe calls.

He doesn’t say anything, but Solas isn’t ignoring her, far from it. He’s staring at her, as if she’s some sort of intensive algebraic problem he’s trying to puzzle out in his head.

Morinthe gives a pointed pout of annoyance and turns her back on him. He always maintains a careful distance, as if she has some sort of invisible barrier around her at all times. Solas will have a lapse in control every few weeks or so, but aside from that, he’s strictly hands off. She’s not sure why she puts up with it, really.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Morinthe knows exactly why. He gives her just enough to drive her wild while still wanting more, and then he runs away again. Morinthe can’t help but race after every time. She is a huntress, after all.

She does have an underlying fear, however. Maybe that’s all this is-- the thrill of the chase. If she finally gets what she wants, will she become disinterested? Morinthe has never considered herself to be that sort of person, and she can name lists of things about Solas other than the physical aspects that she finds quite appealing. She worries all the same.

Morinthe sinks back down beneath the water. If he is so determined not to lay a finger on her, she can at least give him a hard time about it.

The material of her breast band is pretty thin, in the grand scheme of things. Morinthe doesn’t have much to bind, after all, and she prefers to minimalize her clothing. She can already see twin buds of hardened flesh poking through the fabric, as expected.

Without soap, there’s little she can do other than rub to get the mud and blood off of her skin. She flips her hair around to the side, conveniently exposing the bare flesh of her neck.

There’s the sound of water moving gently behind her; the source of the disturbance creeps slowly forward. Morinthe smiles wickedly to herself, inspecting the moonlight playing across her skin like she’s setting a salt-lick.

The movement stops, but the aftershocks still ripple across the surface to lap against her spine. Morinthe’s eyes fall to the shifting, blurring reflection in the water which hovers over her shoulder. His sweater is gone, of course. She thinks it may be his most prized damn possession some days.

She can’t hear him breathing, but she feels the occasional ghost of air against the nape of her neck. He’s being so perfectly still that he does not disturb the water at all, which is both thrilling and fear inducing at once.

Solas likes to be in control; it’s his nature. She thinks a part of him also enjoys being challenged a great deal as well, makes him have to work for it. That serves Morinthe just fine-- she’s not a particularly submissive person herself.

A tentative hand hovers over her arm, and on the other side she feels a warm exhale brush her throat. Morinthe waits until the last second before he actually touches her to act.

She whirls around and roughly shoves him backward. Solas falls into the water with a loud plunk and a sharp gasp.

Morinthe takes this opportunity to swim further out into the water. She doesn’t make it very far, obviously, but she gives it a decent effort. Long arms wrap around her midsection and drag her up to the surface-- although the water is about chin deep for her, Solas is standing with ease.

“What are you trying to do, drown me?” Morinthe sputters, squirming in the vice-grip that has locked around her.

“Indeed,” he chuckles, lowering his face between her neck and shoulder. Morinthe frantically kicks at the air, as if that will do anything, when she’s lifted and carried out of the water.

She’s plopped unceremoniously onto a pile of waiting clothes, and, thankfully, she manages not to hit her head.

“I wasn’t done, dammit!” Morinthe protests.

“Why did you push me?” Solas asks, straddling her hips. 

“I realize it might be a foreign concept,” Morinthe sighs, “But I was just having some fun. Fun, ever heard of it?”

He smirks at her, and though she’d been overheating before, she’s got chills running up her arms and spine now. Must be the water. It’s funny how hesitant he is to do, well, anything to her unless goaded in some way. Pride is an accurate nomenclature.

This is a rather excellent opportunity to take in her quarry, at least. He’s the one who’s really suited to moonlight, she thinks-- his milky skin glows. It throws stark shadows over his features, though, warping his expression into something more menacing.

Now that she thinks about it, this is the closest they’ve ever come to being naked anywhere near each other. They’re both at least half dressed, but there’s still a strange sort of static electricity in the air regardless, which may or may not be magic.

Morinthe shifts her weight in a half-hearted attempt to knock him over, but Solas isn’t budging. At the same time, he isn’t really making any attempt to touch her either. Typical. She defiantly crosses her arms over her chest and glares back up at him.

“What is this about now?” he says, leaning forward so that he can loom over her properly.

“We both know you aren’t going to do anything, so what’s with the teasing, why bother?” she bites back.

Now she’s done it, she thinks triumphantly. His dark brows furrow, and he cocks his head in contemplation.

“Teasing?” he echoes, dragging his fingertips up her side. Morinthe tries to stop herself from jumping, but there’s not really much hope for that. Solas flashes his cruel, white teeth before giving her a sharp pinch in the ribs.

“Teasing!” she wheezes as her nerve start to leap again. Morinthe levels her gaze at him, her tone a bit gentler. “It’s okay if you don’t want to have sex with me, but, if that’s the case, I’d rather not be strung along.”

Solas hums thoughtfully, placing his palms flat against the ground on either side of her head. Although he’s close enough for their breaths to mingle, Morinthe doesn’t flinch away. She wonders what her chances are of being able to kick him off of her, but she decides against it. Given the position he’s put her in, there’s too great of a chance of actually hurting him.

It’s not exactly as if she wants him to stop or anything, either. The tension makes every hair on arms stand on end, to the point that she’s starting to feel nauseous. This is probably the closest thing to a ‘relationship’ Morinthe has ever been in, to be honest. She’s had sex before, but it had always been quick trysts with other teenagers out behind some trees every now and again-- foreplay isn’t something she’s particularly familiar with.

Solas sighs, a deep, shuddering sound that shakes his entire body. Morinthe frowns, and she brings her hands up to his face. She wipes a tiny tear from his thick lashes with her thumb; none take its place. That’s the most he’ll allow to slip, she knows that much by now.

“Hey now,” she whispers. “Don’t worry about it, forget I said anything, okay?”

“I like the things you say,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over her jaw. It slides into her mouth at the corner and parts her lips.

You’d be one of the only ones, is what she would say, but it is rather hard to speak with someone’s fingers in her mouth. It’s more than a little uncomfortable; his calloused skin, however, tastes rather nice.

His other hand closes around her right arm just tightly enough for it to hurt, but nothing that would leave a bruise. She presses her glowing left palm to the center of his chest, smoothing her fingers over his downy hair. He’s got freckles there too, and a natural flush to his skin. How very lovely.

Solas’ heart hammers under her fingers. He always seems so self-assured on the outside, to the point of arrogance sometimes. It’s strangely satisfying, in almost a perverse sort of way, to be given the privilege of seeing him so vulnerable.

His forehead falls gently against hers, and Solas closes his eyes. “Morinthe?”

“Hmm?” she answers as best she can given the circumstances.

“Are you a virgin?” he awkwardly lets out.

Morinthe feels bad for doing it, but she can’t help laughing a little. He gives her an irritated look.

“No,” she manages as he does finally remove his digits from her mouth. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not,” he sighs, “I just… perhaps that could have been a decent excuse not to…”

“Not to do what?” Morinthe interjects sharply.

Solas looks beautifully frustrated, which is almost entertaining enough all on its own.

“Are you trying to drive me insane?” he asks, mouth hovering just over her own.

“You are insane,” Morinthe parrots, “Why would you want anything to do with me otherwise?”

“Fair enough,” he agrees. To say that he kisses her may be an understatement. His hands cup either side of her face as he slides his tongue into her mouth. Her vision gets a bit splotchy from holding her breath too long, and she starts to paw at Solas’ exposed chest.

Apparently, he takes this as a sign that he should stop, so Solas begins to back away. That won’t do, she thinks. Morinthe curls her hand around his neck and smashes him back down into her face again, nearly breaking both their noses in the process. He shakes again, but this time he’s laughing, she can tell.

Even through the fabric, her skin sings as his fingers graze over her breast. At this point she’s doing whatever she can to buy more time before he inevitably cuts things short again. It’s not fair, being worked up like this without any payoff.

She curls her other arm around his shoulders. Her toes curl and legs lift, but her hips are still effectively pinned down to the ground. Solas sits up, and he reaches around to grasp both of her wrists. He forces her arms over her head, and, using one hand to hold them in place, slips the jawbone necklace from around his neck.

Morinthe watches him carefully, quite suddenly put on edge. It might have something to do with the fact that she’s pretty much helpless and half dressed.

“May I tie up your hands?” He asks softly.

Morinthe is rather touched, which may say something about most of the men she’s been with. She’s never been particularly fond of being bound or blindfolded by her partners in the past, but, then again, they’d all had this tendency to just do that sort of thing without really warning her beforehand. They’d just kind of sprung the bondage and assumed she’d be willing to go along with it, and she admittedly had at the time. Her stomach twists a little at the thought now.

It might be fun, though, since he’s being pretty courteous so far. Morinthe is willing to give it a proper shot this time.

“Okay,” she mumbles.

“‘Okay?’” Solas says, raising an eyebrow. “Would you like me to, yes or no? It is not a requirement.”

“Yes, do it,” Morinthe relents. “Give me a little slack, though, just in case.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, giving her an intimate peck before knotting her wrists together with the leather straps.

“I’d love to see Mother Giselle’s reaction to this,” Morinthe muses. “Being a holy figure is a great deal of responsibility, you know, willing role model or not.”

“You are not obligated to be a role model to anyone,” Solas says, rolling his eyes a little.

“Tell them that,” she grunts. Morinthe tests the tie a bit-- it’s secure, but some pressure would undo it pretty easily.

He smooths his fingers over the length of her neck, down between her breasts, and then to her navel. “You have such beautiful skin,” he whispers.

Solas’ hand hovers hesitantly over her form, as if he’s afraid of being burned.

“What was this place like when it was new, do you know?” Morinthe asks, partially to break tension, but also out of genuine curiosity as well.

“The baths were lined with gold and precious gems, but those were looted long ago, for obvious reasons,” he explains, curling a forefinger under the fabric of her breast-band. “They were communal, as the elvhen were not particularly concerned by nudity. In Elvhenan, bath houses were exclusively used by the nobility, but after the fall such social boundaries did not hold so much weight.”

Her skin prickles in the open air. It doesn’t help that she’s still soaking wet. Solas slides the slick band up over her shoulders before gently placing it aside, never taking his eyes off of her.

Solas glances at her face then, stormy blues bright and clever. They play such a strange game-- she’s never really sure who’s hunting whom. It always ends up getting turned around somehow.

He keeps a careful watch on her expression as he lowers his head toward her chest. His tongue darts out across her nipple before he slates his mouth over it. Morinthe’s back arches upward, but he holds her down still as he begins to suck on the sensitive flesh.

Well, this has certainly gone farther than any of their other encounters thus far. Morinthe doesn’t dwell on this too long for fear of jinxing herself.

He switches sides. Morinthe winces as the cool air assaults her. Her eyes snap shut, and she squeezes her legs together in some futile attempt to fend off the heat developing between them.

His teeth clamp down savagely, and Morinthe cries out in pained shock.

“Careful,” she stutters, “you’ll bring those wolves down on us.”

Solas smirks and bites her again, harder this time. She groans, eagerly anticipating the marks that will be left in the morning. The more she squirms, the more forcefully he weighs her down as he torments her.

It’s when his hands go for the ties of her breeches that her heart starts to skip. He finally takes his weight off of her hips, and carefully slides her pants off. Morinthe has a habit of not bothering with small clothes, and today is no different. He seems a bit taken aback, since he just stares blankly for a second or two.

Morinthe’s stomach twists guiltily at his expression. “We, don’t have to, if you don’t...” she fumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if I seemed like I was pressuring, that’s not what I wanted to…”

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, though she’s not certain he’s speaking to her. Solas looks more somber than any man sitting on a tied up naked woman ought to, Morinthe thinks.

“I told you, I’m just like anybody else,” Morinthe tuts. “Don’t look so glum, love. We could die tomorrow, or maybe even in five minutes. Is it really worth worrying about?”

“”Do you truly love me?” he asks, as if she’d just confessed to being the biological mother of a deepstalker.

“Yes,” she asserts, voice heavy with exasperation. “And if you don’t start liking yourself more, I’ll have to give you a proper thrashing. Now, are we going to do this, or shall we head back to camp? I won’t be bothered, really.”

“Fenedhis,” he breathes. Solas looks to the sky for a moment, but only a short one. He quickly slips his arms up underneath the backs of her knees before propping them up on his broad shoulders. Morinthe’s toes curl in delighted anxiety. There’s something both terrifying and invigorating about the idea that anyone strolling by could catch them like this.

He’s not particularly subtle in his affections. It’s a bit overwhelming, actually, but most things are for Morinthe. His mouth is hot and unrelenting, and with her hands bound the way they are, she has no real way to brace herself. She clenches the jaw bone, and the teeth press into her palm until they draw pin-pricks of blood.

Every time she feels like she’s getting close, he slows down, the ass. He’s deliberately trying to punish her, Morinthe concludes. At about the third near pass, Morinthe lets out an involuntary whine of frustration.

He chuckles, and just when she thinks he’s about to keep it up like this for the next ten years, he says, “I suppose they will be wondering where we are if we’re out too long…”

“I’m sure they’ve already guessed,” Morinthe huffs.

Solas shrugs her legs off of his shoulders, and she can’t help sighing a little. She’s still ridiculously worked up, but at least she’s got a bit more blood running to her head. This doesn’t last very long.

Deliberately, Solas unties his own laces. Morinthe doesn’t get much of an opportunity to drink in the view before he grasps her hips. In retrospect, having a bit of lead up does help make this bit more comfortable. There really is something to be said for older men who actually know what they’re doing.

He starts slower, but gradually picks up the pace. Sparks occasionally leap back and forth across their skins, and his fingers trail ice down her spine. Morinthe suddenly regrets having gone this far into her life having never slept with a mage before.

It’s all good and everything, well, perhaps that’s an understatement, but she’s finding herself a bit antsy regardless. She’s not the kind of person who can just lie down and take it, literally, for very long.

She opens one eye to spy at him. Intense as he is, even Solas seems to be a lost in the moment. His eyes are actually shut. Excellent.

Morinthe tests her weight, swaying against his thrusts. Once she’s relatively sure of her trajectory, she waits for him to pull back before suddenly shunting herself forward.

Just as planned, Solas is thrown back, and he huffs as his back hits the ground.

Morinthe takes a moment adjust to the feeling of having him fully hilted inside of her with a contented (and smug) smile.

“Should’ve tied your ankles too,” he groans, rubbing the back of his head.

“The rope that could tame me has not been made, mage,” Morinthe jeers, rocking her hips forward.

“I know,” he growls, relaxing back onto the earth.

Rather than shut his eyes, Solas seems content to watch her work. This suits her fine; she likes it when he looks at her, makes her feel like something more than what she is.

Morinthe takes a more aggressive approach, practically driving the poor man into the ground. Maybe she’s just letting out a few months of pent up sexual frustration, to hazard a guess. The soft flush is now a full on blush, traveling from his ears down to his navel. So pretty she could eat him.

She’s never considered herself to be a possessive person, but she’s never exactly had a serious relationship before either. Morinthe can’t overcome the need to mark him in some way, as if she suddenly has a horde of other potential suitors to fend off.

Morinthe bends over him, and she slides her tongue over the side of his neck. Solas’ pants turn into a strangled grunt as she sinks her teeth into him. She sucks violently until satisfied that she’s broken enough blood vessels. When she pulls away, his flesh is already turning purple.

Something wicked inside of her curls euphorically at the sight. She might just be obsessed with his skin, she realizes. She’s almost jealous, in a way-- she’s always that same deep golden, but he seems to turn a different interesting new color every second.

Solas shudders beneath her, inside her, and it’s the look on his face-- brows furrowed, eyes clenched-- that undoes Morinthe. Without unmounting him, she lies down across his chest. 

“I love you,” she purrs, planting a few small kisses along his jaw.

He only hums faintly in response, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. Morinthe rests her cheek against his collar and listens to his shaky breathing.

“Why does the world have to be so… wrong?” he mumbles helplessly.

“I don’t know,” she confesses.

“No matter how hard one strives, the pieces just never seem to fall into place…” Solas says, trailing off into a small yawn.

“Don’t go to sleep now, we’ll never get back to camp.” Morinthe gives his cheek a small pinch. “And what would we do if they did, anyway? I feel like the lot of us would be out of a job.”

“Live in peace out in the woods somewhere, miles away from any other people. Plant a garden, perhaps,” Solas muses.

“Sounds lovely,” Morinthe says, smiling at the thought. Hesitantly, she asks, “Could… could I come?”

Solas is quiet at that, dead silent in fact. Morinthe frowns. They haven’t exactly been together all that long, but… she can’t say that her heart doesn’t sink a little.

Morinthe sits up and begins to move off of him, but he suddenly grasps her arm. He’s got this intense look on his face, the same one he’d had the first time he’d called her his heart.

“If that day ever comes,” he slowly says, as if carefully trying to piece together the right words. “There is no one else I’d rather have by my side.”

Morinthe smiles, and she cups his cheek. “We should probably go back, before Dorian and Cassandra think we’ve been killed by Freemen.”

“If we must,” he sighs.

Solas unties her, and they silently help each other get dressed. Morinthe enjoys the intimacy of the silence, in a strange way. They take their time walking back to the camp, and when they get there Cassandra is still crouching over the heating pan of rations. Dorian gives them a knowing look, which turns into a balking laugh at the playful glare Morinthe gives him.

Solas sits down by the fire’s edge, calm as ever. She’d once thought nothing could phase him, before now. Morinthe notices with a smirk that even over his high collar, she can see the very edges of her love bite.

She sits down next to him and leans against his side. The heat that sinks into her skin is different from earlier, soothing and comfortable. This is the kind of moment that could last for an eternity and never get old, she thinks. So, naturally, she knows that it won’t.

Oh well.

Morinthe laces her fingers with Solas’, marveling at how small her hand is by comparison.

“So,” Dorian says, suddenly breaking the silence. “Does he scream ‘Elvhen Glory’, or was Sera making that up?”

The night is, for a single instant, filled with irritated groans and boisterous laughter.


End file.
